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They had covered his face.

It seemed absurd to her. It looked absurd to her. The plain, grey jacket was a woman's, Max didn't know whose, and all it covered was his face. His body stuck out below it, stiff white fingers poking from the cuff of his sweater, one foot at an impossible angle from where he had tripped when he was brought down.

But she had people to mobilise. They hadn't had time to grieve, and neither did she. She had people to mobilise.

Later, in a quiet moment, when those left were grieving for the lost and celebrating the living, she could step aside. She went back to the bare concrete pathway where he lay and rested a hand on the thin cotton covering his face. She felt the contours of his cheeks, and his nose and his brow. She laid a kiss on the fabric of the jacket where she knew his mouth was.

Even though she knew it was absurd, even though she thought it looked absurd, she couldn't bring herself to lift the jacket away, even now. Maybe she had grown so used to the barriers between them, maybe she couldn't bear for their moment of actual physical intimacy to be in death, or marred by loss.

Maybe she was terrified that if she saw his face, saw those eyes, lifeless, it would haunt her until she joined him.

She left the jacket where it was, and watched as the plain, grey fabric turned dark and the moisture dripping from her face made it cling to his. When she could see the outline of his glasses beneath, she left. She sent Alec and Joshua to take care of the body. She went to her high place, and gave herself time to grieve.

But the image of wet, grey material clinging around the outline of a pair of glasses wouldn't leave her, and she could think of nothing, other than the fact that it felt absurd.